


Asleep

by gay_jeans



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU kind of, Crying, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, I still love you, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Michael!Dean, Oneshot, PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Protective Castiel, Protective Sam, Touch-Starved, Trauma, Vulnerability, also tw for blood, alternate ending to 14x02, anti-john winchester, honestly sam needs a hug too, hyper-masculinity, i'm so sorry all my other wips, physical affection, tw for self inflicted injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16543076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_jeans/pseuds/gay_jeans
Summary: Asleep. They found him asleep.Alternate ending to 14x02, where Michael left his vessel in a slightly different fashion.





	Asleep

**Author's Note:**

> if im being honest this fic is a little self-indulgent but i think we've all written at least one of those

Asleep. They found him asleep.

Outside the church, like Michael _wanted_ them to find him. A show of power. Discarding his vessel across the steps like nothing more than the morning paper. Stripped of any outwear, only covered by the button up and vest to shield him from the bitter chill that was uncomfortable enough as they were moving, but to be dormant outside for long enough, he had to be freezing.

Sam was practiced enough in reacting in an appropriately timely manner that he dropped to his brother’s side in an instant and was checking his pulse.

“Dean—” But the second Sam’s fingers were touching his elder brother’s neck, bloodshot green eyes snapped open and he scrambled out of his reach.

“No!” The raspy cry tore its way out of a raw throat. Hell, with an Archangel running around in the man, who knew the last time Dean actually had any food or water? “No, get away! No, no…”

“Hey—” Sam fought to keep his voice even but he’d already been dreading any backlash that had to do with Michael’s leaving him, if he even would, and he certainly wasn’t expecting him to. But the Winchesters has a tendency to hope for the hopeless. That was their job—no one else would. “It’s me. You know I’m not going to hurt you.”

Castiel shot him a look that said, _‘Be careful.’_

Not for Sam’s safety.

For Dean’s.

He was right about the cold. Dean was trembling violently. Whether the majority of it was from the elements or the shock (or trauma, a voice in the back of his mind whispered) it was obviously affecting his motor skills. His leather oxfords scuffled against the concrete as he struggled to make distance between himself and them. Wait, oxfords?

It was so unlike Dean that despite the unimportance of the subject Sam had to stop his nose from wrinkling.

He was basically tripping over himself. His chest rose and fell at a quick and unsteady pace. Whatever was going on inside his head, he wasn’t comprehending what was happening.

What the hell had he seen?

Castiel was slowly attempting to ease himself out of Dean’s line of sight. If he could surprise him from behind, just long enough to subdue him without harm, that’d be the best ending they could hope to come out with.

Sam made a slow and calculated advance towards his brother. He jumped back when Dean cocked his arm back after finding a sizeable rock within his range. Part of him knew his big brother wouldn’t intentionally hurt him, but the wild and terrified look in his eyes said otherwise. In the second it took for Dean to launch the rock, Sam grit his teeth and lunged forward. He’d apologize later. But first priority was getting Dean safely to the bunker.

The rock flew past his head, missing by a foot. Normally, it could’ve nailed him between the eyes and he’d be losing consciousness on the ground. But Dean’s coordination was off due to his state of mind. That gave Sam the leeway he needed to tackle him to the ground.

“Cas! Can you knock him—”

Dean wasn’t going down without a fight, even if he couldn’t make any sense of what he was doing; he grappled and thrashed and screamed, trying to throw Sam off, and with a blow to the abdomen to distract his younger brother, Dean was out from underneath him.

His trembling hand found another rock, though a bit smaller but still sizeable enough to inflict a glint of fear in Sam’s eyes. At the last moment Dean seemed to realize he was about to crack his brother’s skull. As if the thought shoved him, he tumbled over and with an angry sob he brought the rock against his own temple. Blood wasted no time to rush down his face and just as he was about to strike again, Castiel caught his wrist and yanked the weapon away.

“Dean!”

He yanked his wrist away with such vigor that suggested he was semi-lucid, and angry. Maybe not just angry, but… tired. Defeated.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” his voice cracked, he covered his ears and winced when he grazed the wound on his head. “‘M so sorry, Sammy. I’m sorry.”

Castiel hesitantly brought his hand up to grip Dean’s shoulder when he dodged it.

“You don’t know,” he said, bitterly, his voice full of tears. “You don’t know what he did. What he made me do, what he made me watch,” he finished with gritted teeth. Then, quietly, “I just want everything to stop.”

Sam swallowed hard. He did know. Maybe not the specifics, but he’d been the vessel for a sadistic archangel with malicious intent. Lucifer had done horrible things in his body; he killed Castiel, and Bobby, and nearly beat Dean’s face to hell — in under an hour. If he could just get through to him—

“No, don’t touch me!” He shouted while gaping at his hands as if they had betrayed him. In a way, they had.

Castiel huffed through his nose and a grim but determined look washed over his face. He advanced on Dean, blocking any attempt he made to keep him away, and spun him around roughly before wrapping his arm around the man’s chest. A guttural growling sound had been emitting from Dean’s throat until Castiel gripped his shoulder, mimicking the faded handprint from years ago, when he raised him from his eternal hell in perdition. Hopefully he saw the contact as Castiel intended it: he was safe, now. He was safe.

Then Dean’s entire dam broke. Crumbled to smithereens. Even his posture wilted; his muscles collapsed and they sunk together to the ground as heavy, bitter sobs broke the otherwise silent evening.

Castiel had seen many human interactions over the many years he’d existed. Even though he could be described as awkward and sometimes a little confused when it came to humans, he’d long since come to the conclusion that they _needed_ physical contact to survive. Some of them seemed content to deny this and go about their lives allowing their pride to restrict such physical affection; it was his understanding that they thought of it as a situation that rendered them too vulnerable.

Dean was a perfect example.

Rarely one to hug, and even when he did, it was only for Sam (occasionally Castiel) and otherwise he’d give it with a begrudging grunt. He was more for a shoulder pat and tough love. But Castiel knew Dean better than anyone he’d ever known. Even more so than Gabriel or Samandriel. He was familiar with the hunger for touch in his eyes. The hesitant twitch in his shoulders when his mother or Sam or he would get close enough. His body begging for a gentle touch but his soldier-like mindset John ingrained into him since youth strictly denying the vulnerability. _(Damn that man to hell, Castiel had often thought. Damn him for ripping away Dean’s childlike innocence. Damn him for fucking with Dean’s mind, even so long after his death and fucking with his responsibility over Sam and ever other person he’d ever have any sort of relationship with.)_

Masculinity had been falsely associated with strength and invulnerability for far too long.

So it was of no hesitancy that Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s forehead. Firm and sure yet gentle. He began stroking his fingers through combed hair, with his cheek on the back of his head as he whispered quiet reassurances into his ear.

Eventually, the sobs wracking his frame lessened and were reduced to occasional hiccups and little gasps until it stopped altogether, and he was asleep.

That’s how Castiel carried him to the Impala. How he rode home. How he remained when the angel placed him in bed, and when lips were pressed to his brow. That’s how he stayed when Castiel resided next to him all night in the armchair, eyes never leaving him.

Asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> john winchester was a bag of shit and anyone who wants to sing his praises on here is gonna have to fight me. meet me on the playground after school.


End file.
